The Verdict

When the portal spit them back, it was under the hush of tiki torches and the salt-wet wind, the Master’s Throne looming above like a mythic lighthouse. One by one, the women materialized under the gazebo’s halo, the adrenaline and paint still clinging to them in streaks and patterns. For a moment, none seemed sure if they’d actually returned: Norah’s legs wobbled beneath her, Sam clutched the backs of her knees as if bracing for another impact, Claire blinked slow and wide, her tail drooping almost to the planks. The glow from the torches put moving halos around every face, making their eyes—each pair, every color—shine with feverish clarity.

Andy watched from his perch at the Throne, arms folded tight across his chest. He looked less like a king and more like a lifeguard about to call time on the pool. Even Arabella, standing a little off to the side in a floating blue sheath dress, looked less composed than usual; the torchlight gave her hair a rusty fire, her cheekbones sharp as incisions.

Norah was the first to move. She staggered, then steadied, the clay disc pressed to her chest like a medal or a wound. The air was thick with the aftermath: sweat, paint, the faint chemical sweetness of the aphrodisiac still drying on their skin. All around her, the women began to breathe again, the silence filling with small, involuntary noises—gasps, laughter, someone (probably Chloe) sniffling.

Then Claire broke from the group with a velocity that startled even herself, her body a bolt of pale skin and torn latex, her cat ears flattened and her tail vibrating with urgency. She landed on Erin, arms locking around the taller woman’s waist, head buried in the crook of her shoulder. She didn’t say a word—couldn’t—but the way her fingers dug in, the tremor of her body, the whole silent collapse of her will, said it all.

Erin caught her, letting out an oof as J-cup breasts and all of Claire’s momentum crashed into her. “Okay, okay, I got you, don’t squeeze the air out of me,” Erin grunted, but her hands were already moving: one stroking Claire’s hair, the other splaying protectively across her back. “That’s what sisters do, right?” Her voice was rough with emotion, or maybe just the effort of staying upright. She grinned, but the effect was ruined by the fact she was definitely about to cry.

Marissa, still half-covered in blue and silver streaks, moved quietly to join them. She didn’t interrupt, just folded herself in, one arm around each woman, her chin coming to rest on Claire’s head. It wasn’t clear who was supporting whom. The three stayed locked together like that, knotted in arms and shudders, until Claire’s tail finally stopped trembling.

Sam, grinning with relief and bloodlust both, scanned the crowd for Liesa. She found her standing off to the side, arms limp, mouth open like she’d just survived a car crash. “Waffle!” Sam called, then scooped the woman into a rib-cracking hug. Liesa yelped, tried to laugh, then just burst into tears—full, body-wracking sobs that she tried and failed to hide in Sam’s shoulder.

“You were a total badass, Sam,” Liesa managed, the Flemish in her accent thickening with emotion.

Sam let out a bark of laughter. “Says the girl who nailed three Mildreds with a bum arm.” She pulled Liesa back, held her by the face, and—before either could second-guess—leaned in and kissed her, hard and reckless, on the lips. The look on both their faces after said: I love you.

Emily, hair glowing in the torchlight, moved like she was walking underwater. Her body was bare but for the living wave of gold and pink that still managed, impossibly, to cover her breasts and sex. She glanced from cluster to cluster, then beelined for Emi, Chloe, and Dawn, who stood dazed but alive near the white bench at the side. Without a word, Emily threw her arms around Emi, who squeaked in surprise and then, delighted, wrapped all six of her arms around Emily, engulfing her in a tangle of limbs.

Chloe, eyes red and face sticky with tears, was about to say something, but Emily’s hand shot out and snagged hers, pulling her in. Chloe, giggling and sobbing at the same time, let herself get dragged, her enormous breasts bouncing in rhythm with every step. Dawn hesitated—then, catching Chloe’s eye, dove in to complete the hug. The four stood like that, shivering and laughing, until Emi’s extra arms began tickling random spots, and they all broke apart, howling.

It was Emi who first noticed Norah standing off by herself, the clay disc still clutched to her chest like a baby animal. She was breathing hard, eyes unfocused, hair stuck to her forehead in sweat-plastered lines. For a second, she looked so raw, so alone, that Emi untangled herself from the group hug and walked over.

“You did it, Norah,” Emi whispered, voice soft as a secret. “You really did it.”

Norah laughed, a short, broken sound. “Yeah. So why do I feel like shit?”

Emi shook her head, then pressed her own tiny hand over Norah’s on the disc. “Because you cared,” Emi said. “That’s how you know you’re alive.” She waited, then pulled Norah into a slow, gentle embrace, the disc sandwiched between them.

From the edge of the circle, Riley stood apart. She had one arm around her waist and the other dangling at her side, her chin dropped, her eyes fixed somewhere out over the ocean. The lines of her face were as harsh as ever, but the set of her shoulders was new—a weight, an acceptance, or maybe just the anticipation of what was coming next. She watched the others, all of them, but her expression never changed.

Above them all, Andy watched. The torchlight put shadows under his eyes and lines in his forehead that had never been there before. There was triumph in him, but also respect, and perhaps a bit of awe. He looked at the women as if he could see not just their bodies but the shape of what the world had done to them, and how they’d stood up for each other when it really mattered.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the flames, the hush of the surf, and the quiet sobs and laughter of women who had just done the impossible.

Arabella moved in the hush that followed, her silhouette tall and ghostly under the arc of the torchlight. She stepped forward from her post beside the Master’s Throne, her gown catching every breeze like a banner. When she stopped at the center of the circle, all the women turned at once; the warmth of victory and reunion evaporated, replaced by the cold gravity that always came before a culling.

Andy saw the change come over Arabella—her Host’s poise sliding into place, shoulders squaring, chin lifting. He recognized the gesture: this was how you broke news you didn’t want to deliver.

She lifted her hands, palms open, and her voice when it came was honeyed velvet, the kind you use to comfort a dying animal. “My dears, let me first say you have astonished me. The skill, the sacrifice, the teamwork—it was all I could have wished for, and then some. You have made me proud, every one of you.”

She let the words hang, let the promise of pride warm them for just a second. Then her face sharpened, lips thinning. “But the game remains, and so must the rules. As you know, the first to fall in a challenge is the one to leave it.”

She paused, and even the ocean seemed to hush in anticipation.

“Riley,” she said, and the name fell like a hammer. “You were the first to be knocked out. Unfortunately, that means elimination.”

There was no gloating in her words, no coldness. If anything, Andy heard regret, a kind of parental sorrow. Arabella was too good to show tears, but her eyes, tonight, had the sheen of someone who wished things could have gone a different way.

Riley didn’t flinch. She straightened, wiped her hands on the hips of her pants, and nodded once. “I get it,” she said, voice sharp and final. “Rules are rules.” She looked around the group, fixing her gaze briefly on each woman—Liesa, who mouthed a silent “no,” Marissa, who actually reached out a hand, Norah, who just stared, eyes huge. She did not look at Andy.

Arabella stepped closer, close enough now that Andy could see the trembling of her hands as she gathered the folds of her dress. “You were heroic,” Arabella said, softly now. “You gave the others a chance when you ran back through that corridor. I will remember it.”

Riley shrugged, the motion brittle. “What happens now?”

Arabella took in a breath, as if steadying herself. “Now you face your transformation. And then you may choose to stay in the resort for as long as you want, and at the end of the season, go back with Andy and the harem, or stay in a place for those who went through the same thing.” Her eyes flicked, involuntarily, to Andy.

But before she could say more, Andy rose from his throne. The scrape of wood on deck was loud in the hush. He didn’t have a speech prepared, but his voice—when it came—was clear as a bell. “Let’s drop the theatrics, Arabella. You know as well as I do. I use my veto for Riley,” he said, not unkindly.

The silence that followed Andy’s words had its own kind of gravity: every pair of eyes found him, every breath seemed to stop in the torchlit hush. Even Arabella paused, her hands poised in the air, the Host’s mask slipping for the barest instant as she absorbed what he’d said.

He saw the surprise ripple through the group. Liesa’s jaw dropped. Emi’s lower arms went limp at her sides. Chloe’s lips parted on the verge of a sob. Even Riley, the target of all this, looked stunned—her whole body jerking as if she’d been shot point-blank, not with a paintball, but with a promise.

Arabella was the first to recover. She lowered her hands, the movement graceful, but her voice was sharper now. “Andy, are you certain? This is your only veto. If you use it tonight, you will have none left for the final round. There will be at least one more elimination after this, and a final culling at the very end.” Her eyes flicked, almost imperceptibly, to Norah, then Sam, then Claire. “The others may need you to save them.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I know,” he said. He looked at the Host. “Did you really think I would let anyone go?”

Arabella nodded, the gesture small but significant. “Very well,” she said, her voice returning to velvet. “The veto is yours to spend. Riley will stay.”

Before anyone could react, Riley spoke up—loud enough to cut the tension, but not loud enough to hide the tremor underneath. “No,” she said, shaking her head hard. “I don’t want it. Rules are rules. I don’t need your pity, Andy.”

He stepped down from the Throne, the old wooden steps creaking. The torchlight put his shadow all the way to the edge of the gazebo. “It’s not pity,” he said, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the certainty of that truth. “It’s respect.”

Riley tried to glare at him, but the mask had slipped. Her eyes were too bright, her jaw working as she fought for the right words. “You don’t even like me,” she spat. “You don’t even want me here.”

Andy shook his head. “You’re wrong about that. And you’re wrong about the rules. The only reason you were eliminated is because you chose to save the others. You could have stayed behind the line, let the rest of them get picked off. But you didn’t. You ran into the fire.”

Riley scoffed. “I’m not a hero, Andy. I just didn’t want anyone else to—” Her voice caught, and she looked away, blinking hard.

He took another step toward her. “I know you’re not a hero,” he said. “That’s why I trust you.” He looked around the circle, meeting every eye in turn. “None of us are. We’re just people who get thrown into situations and have to decide what kind of person we want to be. And you showed all of us who you are, Riley, when push comes to shove.”

Arabella watched, silent, her Host face unreadable.

Riley’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “You’re going to regret it. Someone better is going to need that veto. Sam, or Claire, or—hell, even Erin. They might actually deserve it. I don’t.”

Andy smiled, tired and honest. “You don’t get to decide that for me.” He paused, the words forming slow in his mouth. “When I said this was a family, earlier today, I meant it. You’re part of it, now. Whether you like it or not.”

He saw the wall in Riley’s eyes—sixteen years of anger and grief and stubborn, animal will. He saw it start to crack. “You think this is about loyalty?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I think it’s about forgiveness.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then said, “I don’t want your forgiveness. Not for me.”

“It’s not for you,” Andy said, and he could feel every set of eyes on him, every heartbeat in the night. “It’s for Laura. For what happened to her, and to you, and to everyone who had to carry that forward. I can’t bring her back. But I can stop the cycle. I can choose not to lose her best friend, when I could do something about it.” He smiled wanly. “She would never forgive me, otherwise.”

The word “Laura” hung in the air, a ghost that had never left. The torchlight flickered, the wind off the ocean a hush that felt almost reverent.

Riley’s lips trembled. She tried to swallow, but her voice was just a whisper: “She always loved you better.”

Andy smiled, small. “Yes. But she loved you, Riley. You were her friend. You know that.”

For a moment, he thought she might break—turn and run, punch him, do something loud and raw to make the world right. But she just laughed, low and ugly and real, and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

He closed the last of the distance, then reached out—slow, so she could see it coming. She flinched, but didn’t move. He put a hand on her shoulder, solid and warm.

“We’re not done yet,” he said. “You don’t have to be done, either.”

Riley stared at his hand for a long second, then nodded. “Fine,” she muttered, voice thick. “But if you do this, you don’t get to take it back.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “I know.”

From behind them, Marissa’s voice floated, soft and soothing: “You don’t have to be strong for anyone here, Riley.” It was her gift, the gentle velvet that made even the hardest truth feel safe. Riley looked back at her, and the tremor in her jaw was gone—replaced by something like peace.

Andy turned to Arabella. “Does that make it official?”

The Host inclined her head, all ritual. “It does. Riley Bennett remains in the game. The veto is spent.”

There was no applause. No one needed it.

But as Andy stepped back, he saw something new in the group. The lines of rivalry, of competition, had blurred—worn down not by victory, but by the pain and risk they’d all just survived. Riley looked around, then blinked away the last of the tears, her lips pressing into a line that could almost have been a smile.

The hush in the gazebo thickened, every torch casting the whole scene in a gold wash, as if to fix it in memory: the Master standing not on the Throne but beside Riley, his hand still on her shoulder; Riley blinking back tears, lips pressed white. The rest of the women hung in the silence, their expressions in flux—shock, wonder, relief, the tremble of something huge and irreversible.

Then, softly, the dam broke.

Riley’s composure—fortress, shield, whatever it was—shattered all at once. Her hands flew up to her face, covering her mouth, her nose, her eyes, as if she could hide from the tidal wave rolling through her. A sound escaped her, half-laugh and half-sob, the wet, helpless noise of a person finally giving in. She doubled over, elbows pressed to her ribs, and the rest of her body curled around the pain and the letting go.

Andy didn’t wait. He stepped forward, sliding one arm behind her shoulders and the other around her waist, and just held her. Riley stiffened for a fraction of a second, then melted. She didn’t just accept it—she clung to him, both hands gripping his shirt so tight the knuckles blanched. For the first time, she didn’t hold anything back.

The group watched, eyes wide and glimmering, as sixteen years of anger and hurt came undone in Andy’s arms.

He felt her shaking. She pressed her face to his chest, breath hot and erratic, and her tears soaked the front of his shirt in a matter of seconds. He rested his chin on the crown of her head, and just breathed with her, the way you do when someone is drowning and all you can offer is a shoreline.

Then the other women began to move. One by one, as if by silent signal, they closed in around Riley and Andy, their bodies forming a circle that was less a shield and more a promise: you are not alone, not anymore, not ever.

Dawn was the first to touch—her hand was gentle in Riley’s hair, stroking slow and rhythmic, the way a mother would comfort a feverish child. “You’re safe,” she whispered, and the words seemed to sink straight through.

Emi followed, her six arms enfolding Riley and Andy in a cocoon, two arms at the shoulders, two at the waist, two at the back. She leaned in and rested her forehead against Riley’s, sharing the heat and the salt of their mingled tears.

Claire, unable to speak, simply pressed in close, her cat tail snaking around Riley’s ankle like a tether, her cheek resting against Riley’s upper arm. She radiated a silent, unbreakable presence.

Marissa joined the circle, one hand supporting Andy’s back, the other gently kneading Riley’s shoulder, each touch a benediction.

Chloe, wide-eyed and trembling with the aftermath of her own adrenaline, slipped her arms around Riley’s midsection. She rested her head on Riley’s back and just held tight, as if afraid that any of this could be lost if she let go.

Norah, who had not let herself feel much of anything in the past hour, surrendered at last. She stepped forward, the heavy clay disc now held out at her side, and offered a single, solid squeeze of Riley’s upper arm. “Told you you’d make it,” Norah whispered, voice gruff but warm, then looked away before she could get emotional.

Sam, still panting a little from the post-challenge high, joined at Riley’s other side, and for a second the two just looked at each other—sizing up the distance that had once been a war zone, now nothing at all. Sam offered a crooked smile and nudged Riley with her shoulder. “Welcome back, Red,” she said. “Don’t get used to being the dramatic one.”

Liesa came next, her own tears fresh and her smile genuine. She took Riley’s hand in both of hers, squeezed hard, and just nodded. For her, that was enough.

Even Emily, bare as always but radiant in the torchlight, pressed in, arms around Emi’s back, her head resting atop the tangle of hands and arms that made up the hug’s center.

Above all of them, Arabella watched. The Host’s mask had slipped: her eyes shone with something too bright for composure, her lips pressed together in a smile that was half sorrow, half delight. She let the scene play out, giving it the space it needed, her own hands folded over her heart.

The hug went on for minutes, maybe years. Every time Riley seemed ready to pull away, someone else’s arm would tighten, someone else’s hand would find hers, and she’d break down all over again. But the pain was different, now: it was the ache of having survived, of being pulled back from the brink and told, for the first time in forever, that it was okay to stay.

In the lull that followed, Riley lifted her head from Andy’s shirt, her face wet and shining. “I’m sorry,” she managed, but her voice was steadier now. “I don’t know why this is so hard.”

Andy smiled at her. “It’s not supposed to be easy. That’s why we do it together.”

Chloe giggled through her own tears. “See? Family stuff always turns into a mess. You fit right in.”

For a moment, the only sound was the ocean, and the breath of women learning, together, what it meant to be whole.

Arabella waited until the group finally loosened, the circle opening but never breaking. Then she stepped forward, her movements slow, careful, as if not to shatter the magic. She took the clay disc from Norah, nodded her respect to each woman in turn, and set it gently on the table beside the Throne.

Riley snorted, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Thanks for the overtime.”

Arabella’s smile was wide, warm. “Anytime.”

The torches hissed in the breeze. The salt air carried the promise of another night, another chance.

The next phase—Arabella always called it a phase—began when the lanterns on the gazebo guttered, then steadied into a higher, whiter flame. The deck was reset: the glass pitcher of water refilled and dewed with condensation, the harem sitting on their stools, still in their challenge wear—torn and shredded latex, sweat-damp underthings, Emily in nothing but her trailing mane, Erin naked as the moon with huge boobs wobbling.

The mood, by contrast, was subdued. Even the wildest girls (Norah, Sam, Emi) had fallen into a hush, as if the challenge had sandblasted something raw in all of them. They sat on the white benches arrayed before the Throne, knees pressed together, arms folded, eyes alternating between the Host and the ocean horizon. Riley, dry-eyed but shivering a little, occupied the end of the row, the spot reserved for the recently damned or the unexpectedly reprieved.

Andy sat in the Throne, less as monarch than as accidental judge. His hands gripped the armrests, forearms corded, every so often flexing and then letting go as if uncertain how to hold the present.

Arabella drifted to the center, her hair glowing like copper wire in the light. When she spoke, her voice had both velvet and an iron hinge, as if each word was a law passed for the first and last time.

“Ladies,” she intoned, “the final scores are in. Each of you acquitted yourselves with—” She paused, smile faint but real. “—a creativity and valor that, frankly, I found exhilarating.”

A ripple ran through the benches—Chloe bit her lip, Liesa looked at her feet, Sam shot a wink at Norah, who scowled in reply.

“The winning team,” Arabella continued, “was the ‘Frontline’—Norah, Sam, and Claire. For their capture of the target and successful escape, they each earn Victory Points as follows. Norah: twelve VPs.” Arabella looked at Norah, who straightened, then blinked as if she’d misheard. “Sam: ten VPs.” Sam shot both fists in the air, then immediately dropped them, remembering decorum. “Claire: eight VPs.”

At this, Andy watched Claire. Her eyes had been bright, even predatory, through most of the ceremony, but when her name was called she flinched—not with surprise, but with calculation. He felt the shift, the silent math happening behind those big blue eyes. He sensed a sudden determination within her. She accepted the number but did not bask in it; her tail stilled, her hands fidgeted with the edge of her notebook. He made a mental note.

Arabella continued: “The rest of the harem will receive points based on their elimination order and performance. Dawn: six VPs. Emily: four VPs. Liesa: two VPs.” She gave Liesa a long, fond look, as if to say sorry about the catwalk. “Chloe: zero.”

Chloe made a squeak, smiled anyway, and gestured a little wave to the group. Riley, on her end, snorted so loud it almost drowned out the next line.

“Emi: negative two VPs.”

Emi looked up, six hands flying to her cheeks in a tableau of comic horror. She glanced at Andy, who gave her a thumbs-up, and she giggled, instantly forgiving all.

“Marissa: negative four VPs. Erin: negative six VPs.”

At this, Erin’s face went slack. “I literally didn’t get past the Rotunda,” she deadpanned, but the line landed with a comic thud, and the others all laughed, even Marissa. Sitting next to Claire, she looked fondly at the catgirl. The two women had clearly adopted each other by now, united by their feelings towards Andy.

“And finally,” Arabella said, her voice softening, “Riley: negative eight VPs.”

There was a stillness, a sucked-in breath. Riley stared forward, unblinking, her mouth set in a line sharp enough to cut wire. She did not move, but Andy could sense the blood pounding behind her eyes.

“As you know,” said Arabella, “Victory Points not only determine ranking, but also transformations at the next ceremony. Norah, as the challenge winner, you are safe for the round, although you will still acquire one transformation due to your Hand-Me-Downs effect.”

Norah raised the clay disc slightly, as if it were a trophy or an old wound. “I can’t believe I actually won something,” she muttered, but the words were sincere. Andy sensed Claire’s secret burst of relief, and realized the catgirl had planned for it. He looked at her, and she sensed his attention, looking back with a feeling of such utter innocence that Andy almost called bullshit on the spot.

Arabella smiled. “Norah, you’re more than you think.” Then, her attention snapped back to the harem at large. “The rest of you should prepare. The transformations next week will be—let’s just say, inventive.”

That got a general shiver, but also a few grins.

Arabella was about to dismiss the gathering when Claire stood.

She didn’t raise her hand or wave; she just slid off the bench, cat tail trailing, and marched up to the front with her notebook. Every step was deliberate. The women, used to her silence, watched her with an odd mixture of respect and curiosity.

Claire reached the Host, flipped open her book, and pointed at a line she’d written in her own sharp, elegant hand.

Arabella’s eyebrow arched, then both eyes widened. “Are you sure?” she asked, genuinely caught off guard.

Claire nodded, slowly but with the conviction of someone who had rehearsed this moment for days.

Arabella scanned the line again, then looked to Andy, as if to say: “Your harem is smarter than you.”

Sam blurted, “What’s up? Catgirl got a secret move?”

Claire, undeterred, turned her notebook toward the rest of the group and, holding it high, showed off what she’d written:

There’s a rule in the Rulebook—subsection D, line 3. Any Contestant may donate up to ten percent of her Victory Points to another Contestant in any given round, provided the Host is notified prior to the end of the round, which according to subsection A, line 34, is marked by the transformation ceremony.

A hush. Then, chaos:

Sam blinked. “Wait, we can donate?”

Dawn piped up, “How did you know that? I didn’t even get a Rulebook!”

Liesa looked at Dawn. “I don’t think you want one.” She remembered Claire’s state of mind after reading it. Then she turned to Claire. “Ten percent, like, per round?” The catgirl nodded.

Andy, for his part, caught Arabella’s eye, waiting to see if she’d dispute it. She did not.

Riley, at the end of the bench, looked up as if suddenly remembering she was in a body. Her jaw worked, but she said nothing.

Claire held up another page. This one was direct:

I want to transfer my full 10% to Riley.

The sound that went through the group wasn’t just shock—it was the gasp of a social order being rewritten in real time. Even Marissa, normally the most composed, blinked and then put a hand to her heart.

“Why?” said Riley, low but clear, glaring. “You worked for those. I didn’t do anything but get shot first.”

Claire didn’t hesitate. She wrote fast, then turned the page to face Riley and the group:

If you hadn’t taken the hit, none of us would have gotten through the second room. We would have been wiped out. I did the math. You gave us the opening.

She let the book hang in the air for a moment, then added, in careful script:

This isn’t charity. It’s payment for services rendered.

The line got a laugh, but also a few tears. Chloe started to sob again, and Emi clapped all six hands, setting off a ripple effect.

Riley stood. For a moment, it looked like she might refuse—her face was pure rage, pure grief, pure every emotion she’d refused to feel for sixteen years. “I don’t want—” she started, but then her voice failed. She tried again: “It’s not fair. You should get the credit.”

Claire wrote:

It’s not about fairness. It’s about doing what’s right.

The words landed like a hammer, and Andy saw something crack in Riley’s armor. She sat back down, her hands shaking.

Marissa was the first to rally. “You’re a damn good leader, Claire,” she said, and her voice—impossibly—made even Arabella’s cheeks flush pink.

Sam whistled, long and low. “Class move, Catgirl.”

Dawn piped up: “Could we all donate? Like, a little from everyone?”

But Claire shook her head, holding up her book once more:

You made me leader. The responsibility is mine.

Erin, ever competitive, shot a hand in the air. “If you ever want to offload some points, I’m sitting on a pile,” she said, squeezing her boobs together for emphasis. “But respect, Catgirl.”

Claire nodded, her tail flicking a little in victory. She turned to Arabella, her meaning clear.

Arabella inclined her head. “Very well,” she said, and her voice had more than a hint of pride. “The rule stands. Riley, you are the beneficiary of eight Victory Points, transferred from Claire Freeman.”

Riley blinked, once, twice, as if waiting for the floor to open and swallow her. When it didn’t, she nodded, slow and heavy. “Thank you,” she said, and her voice was rough but sincere. “I won’t forget it.”

The group broke into applause—ragged, uneven, but real. The glow in the air was as tangible as the night’s humidity. Even Andy felt it, a charge that ran from his chest all the way to the tips of his fingers.

As the ceremony dissolved into laughter and hugs and the low, gossipy swirl of women suddenly aware they might not all die in the next round, Andy watched Claire return to her bench. She sat with her notebook folded in her lap, her eyes cast down, but her lips just barely curled.

He felt it in the bond between them: a satisfaction, a pride, and—finally—a happiness that was not marred by guilt.

He turned to Arabella. She stood at the far side of the Throne now, watching the group with an expression Andy had only seen once before: the night she’d admitted to loving the game, even as it wounded her.

He joined her, both of them looking out at the chaos below.

“I have a question,” Andy said, low so only she would hear. “That ten percent rule. Is it rounded up or down?”

Arabella’s lips twitched. “Why do you ask?”

Andy shrugged. “Seems like eight is a high number for ten percent of Claire’s total. I figured you’d split the difference.”

She gave him a look—pride, mischief, affection, all in one. “There are things to take into consideration, Andy. Sometimes, it’s better to err on the side of generosity.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

Arabella smiled, and this time it was not the Host’s mask, but something human and warm and a little sad. “Claire has learned well.”

They watched in silence as the harem untangled itself, splitting into subgroups—Riley and Norah, both looking at the sky as if seeing it for the first time; Sam and Liesa, arms around each other, giggling over something; Marissa and Chloe, comforting Emi, who seemed to be on the verge of tears for no reason other than joy; Erin, rolling her eyes but clearly delighted by the general display of affection.

And at the center, Claire, alone for a moment, tail wrapped around one ankle, notebook resting on her thigh. She looked at Andy, and gave him a broad smile.

Andy felt a pulse of pride in his chest. He knew the game wasn’t over—not even close. But tonight, at least, the scales had been balanced. And his catgirl had gotten everyone home.